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Dear Ron MacLean, dear Coach's Corner |
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I'm writing in order |
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For someone to explain to my niece the distinction |
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Between these mandatory pre-game group rites of submission |
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And the rallies at Nuremburg, specifically the function |
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The ritual serves in conjunction |
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With what everybody knows is, in the end, a kid's game |
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I'm just appealing to your sense of fair play |
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When I say she's puzzled by |
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This incessant pressure for her to not defy |
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Collective will and yellow-ribboned lapels |
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As the soldiers inexplicably repel |
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Down from the arena rafters |
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Which, if not so insane, would be grounds for screaming laughter |
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Dear Ron MacLean, I wouldn't bother with these questions |
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If I didn't sense some spiritual connection |
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We may not be the same but it's not like we're from different planets |
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We both love this game so much we can hardly fucking stand it |
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Alberta-born, prairie-raised |
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Ain't a sheet of ice north of Fargo I ain't played |
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From Penhold to the Gatineau |
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Every fond memory of childhood that I know |
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Is somehow connected to the culture of |
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This game, I just can't let it go |
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I guess it comes down to |
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What kind of world you want to live in |
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Diversity is disagreement, disagreement is treason |
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Well, don't be surprised if we find ourselves reaping |
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A strange and bitter fruit that that sad old man beside you |
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Keeps feeding to young minds as virtue |
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It takes a village to raise a child, just a flag to raze the children |
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Until they're nothing more than ballast for fulfilling |
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A madman's dream |
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Of a paradise |
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Complexity |
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Reduced to black and white |
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How do I |
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Protect her from |
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This cult of death? |
